


Hurricane Drunk

by figurehead



Category: The Cure (Band)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figurehead/pseuds/figurehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the song of the same name by Florence + The Machine. When Robert finds himself at a Fools Dance gig, old memories and feelings begin to resurface.<br/>[originally written + posted on tumblr in 2011, revised in 2015]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own or know the members of The Cure. Any events described here are entirely fictional and I make no profit from writing this.
> 
> I basically took an old fic of mine from 2011 and revised it a bit and put it up here it takes place in 1983 enjoy. btw Fools Dance is simons band after he left the cure and before he came back lmao idk what the fuck else to tag  
> HEY ROBERT WHERE THE FUCK IS THE NEW ALBUM

I think I’m slowly and gradually spiralling out of control. And there’s nothing to be done about it.  
And you know what? I don’t mind.

It’s strange approaching my own self-destruction this way, but then again, everything has this sort of strangeness to it - but I s'pose that’s always been the way I see things. It’s almost like I’m being swept up in a hurricane, but instead of trying to fight it, I’m surrendering to it and letting myself drift amongst this madness that surronds me. I don’t know how to describe how it feels - at the time it sort of feels dangerous, yet so fucking good at the same time, but then I wake up the next day dizzy with a sore head, and I can’t help but think ‘what the fuck happened? Why am I doing this? I need to pack this in’. But I know for a fact that I can’t seem to pack it in - I belong to the hurricane, and in a way it's almost as if like I am the hurricane itself.  
I don’t think I’ve slept properly in weeks. The late nights are kind of starting to take their toll; along with being in, what, three bands at once. One minute I’m promoting this Cure single that’s brought me all the success I’ve never even wanted, the next I’m being whisked away for a Banshees photoshoot and eventually I find myself on television with Severin and Jeanette Landray miming to Punish Me With Kisses. It’s muddling up my head a little bit, but it’s nothing that a bit of mushroom tea can’t sort out. But I’m supposed to be on tour with both The Cure and the Banshees at the same time, and I can’t imagine any sane, stable, normal human being would be able to deal with that without eventually throwing out their arms and screaming “I give up! I fucking give up!”. But I’m not really a sane, stable, normal human being, am I?  
So where’ve I found myself this time? I don’t know whether it’s a club or a bar or both. I look down at the drink in my hand and think to myself with a sigh, _here we go again_. I’ll probably finish this one, order another round and pass out before I’ve even finished that one. And god knows how I’m going to get home in one piece this time - I’ve come here alone, without Lol or Severin or even Mary or anybody. I don’t even know how anyone can possibly put up with me. Looking around at the scene behind me, I see a crowd of people gathered together, a few mindlessly swaying, some dancing with each other and the rest just standing and nodding their heads to whatever crap they’re playing this time, not really paying attention to anything.  
I find myself wandering aimlessly amongst the crowd, not even realising my feet have taken me there, and before I know it I’m staring at my shoes because there’s nothing else to look at, really. I turn my gaze to my hand and realise I’m still holding my drink, and I hesitate before I finally bring it to my lips. I’ve had a few years’ experience of drinking, to the point where I can barely even taste the bitter sting of alcohol, but it still doesn’t stop me from actually feeling its effects - or in my case, getting so drunk I can barely even stand or string a sentence together. It’s probably going to kill me soon, but I don’t care.

“Is that - is that that bloke?” I hear a voice call out amongst the crowd.  
“What bloke?”  
“You know. That bloke who’s in that group. … No, never mind, I’m thinking of someone else.”  
Sighing in both annoyance and relief, I take another drink and feel myself getting much lighter.

I’ve barely been paying attention to the scene changing around me, and I look up towards the stage and see that there’s a band onstage. There doesn’t really seem to be anything too special about them at first glance, but then I get a better look at their singer, for a lack of a better word; he’s not that good, I can barely even call him a singer.  
Fucking hell. It’s Gary Biddles, one of our roadies. What’s he doing up there…? Sort of weird, if you ask me. Immediately I remember it’s been just over a year since the last date of the Fourteen Explicit Moments tour in Belgium, when he took over on vocals and we’d all switched instruments - I was playing drums, and I distinctly remember throwing the sticks at him and telling him to fuck off when I realised he was just slagging the band off. It’s funny how I barely remember anything from 1982 except for that. And a few other notable events too - Oh god. I’d know that bassist anywhere.  
That’s... that’s Simon.  
God. Just when I thought I’d pushed him out of my mind with drugs and alcohol. He just seems so confident and untouchable up on that stage, effortlessly pounding away at the strings - I can’t believe I’m seeing him from a completely different perspective, as if I never knew him at all, never shared a stage with him, never fell in love with him -  
_Stop it. Just fucking stop it._ It was fucking useless wasting my time lusting after him; because after all, that was all it was, wasn’t it? Then how come I felt like my heart had been torn in half when I said goodbye to him at the airport? I suppose that’s what happens when you’re best mates with someone for years. You start seeing them in a different light. You fall in love with them.  
And then they break your fucking heart and you start taking more drugs than you were by that time.  
I can’t believe I could’ve possibly thought Simon was meant for me - even through the maelstrom of negative emotions that was the Pornography tour. Now I realise what a stupid fucking mistake I’d made letting my emotions overtake me completely; I should never have let myself fall for the bastard and those nights I spent wanking myself to sleep while I thought about him were a complete waste of time. But now I’ve just seen him again, with much more hair than he had the last time I saw him, I can already feel myself lapsing back into that dreaded lovesick state all over again.

God, where am I? Who are all these people? I thought for a moment that it was just Simon here, that Simon was all that mattered right now, that - I sound pathetic, I know. But all the memories are flooding back all at once, and I don’t know how to stop them. It’s especially inconvenient right now; I came here to escape the real world, not surround myself in it again. I really don’t remember why I came here, actually. God, how I used to dream about him!  
I’d wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat and a familiar sticky mess, and spend hours not being able to get back to sleep because I felt so fucking ridiculous after what I’d just seen. What if I start having those dreams again - those dreams about Simon that I’d barely even remember for hours afterward, those dreams that made me collapse every time I remembered them because of their intensity? The last dream I had - I can’t believe I still remember it, it was the day after he left - involved him strangling me with a long, forked tongue as he fucked me from behind, and when I’d woken up I swore I could still feel the pressure of his hands on my hips and the tongue around my throat, and it'd made me sick to my stomach. Oh god, it's happening again, I think I’m falling… but I manage to get myself back up on my feet within a matter of seconds. Strange - I never thought myself able to do that ever again.

I finish my drink and toss the plastic cup aside, then look straight up at Simon. He probably can’t even see me - and if he did, he wouldn’t even spare me a second glance. But I don’t care. He might’ve forgotten me, but I’ve not forgotten him, no matter how hard I’ve tried. I close my eyes and before I know it, I’m sort of swaying from side to side - I’m not even sure what I’m doing or why I’m doing it; I’ve never really reckoned myself a dancer. And maybe if I keep doing this for long enough, Simon might notice me at least. Maybe this is enough to get him to realise that I’m not as dead as he reckoned me to be by the time he left - but like I said, I have no fucking idea what I’m doing… here.  
It’s not until I’m staring up at the ceiling, making movements with my hands that makes it look to me like I’m trying to catch the lights up ahead, when it finally hits me - God, I know what this is. It’s Andy’s mushroom tea kicking in, I must’ve had some earlier before I headed off out. But really, why am I doing this? I probably look like a complete idiot - I need to stop and get the fuck out of here before anyone recognises me, what with Simon’s band playing here tonight.  
I quickly make my way through the crowd, muttering 'excuse me’s and 'sorry’s to everyone and getting 'oi, watch it!’s and 'tosser!’s in return, then walk toward the cloakroom and grab my coat before heading out the door. It’s cold and dark outside, obviously - and there’s barely any signs of life anywhere around here, except for a few newsagents and chip shops with the lights on inside glaring a cold bluish white, and… god, what time is it? … it’s about half past midnight, so I’m guessing all the respectable members of the public are fast asleep. And then there’s me, standing in an empty street below a flickering street light, shivering in the cold. I light a cigarette and take a long, deep drag. Then I laugh myself sick.

It’s been bloody useless all along. Nothing is going to change things back to the way they were. Nothing, no light breeze, no storm, not even this hurricane of mine is going to bring my Simon back to me - what am I even talking about? He was never even mine in the first place; he’s Simon, and he doesn’t need to belong to anyone. While I’m drifting helplessly amongst the hurricane, he’s dancing effortlessly on the breeze, on tiptoe, spinning in circles as he laughs, without a single clue I’m watching him and just wanting to be there with him. So vibrant, so real, so wonderful and full of life, just so undeniably indescribably inescapably Simon. And it was never meant to be me and him. But I can’t let it go now; not after he’s danced back into my head and made bloody well sure I’m going to see him in my dreams again tonight.  
But at least it can’t get any worse from here. At least he’s not the one who’s not sure if he’s alive or dead. I’d hate for him to end up like me.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i could have sworn this was longer  
> with sincerest apologies to florence welch


End file.
